And when there is a keyboard in close proximity that usually translates to words on a screen somewhere.

It's been a few days since I've blogged here and I'm starting to feel guilty. A night ago I finished writing an intensely personal story, however due to the sensitive nature of it's content I was unable to post it here. And afterwards I was kinda messed up… it's like I just released some of the inner conflict that drove me. I don't have a lot of inner conflict as it is, so I think I should hang onto the rest of it.

There's a few things I've been pondering lately. One is the nature and extent that I'm willing to let any government control my life. It's become something of a philosophical debate for me, I hope to dig more into it.

Another thing I started digging up was information on the United Arab Emirates. In the oil industry I've met people who've worked there and the fact that they're become so insanely wealthy while being a predominantly muslim state intrigues me. I realize there are other wealthy muslim territories, Kuwait comes to mind, but Dubai reminds me of what Manhattan was in the Mid-20th century. What I mean by that is that the culture seems to be steeped in that cutting-edge best in the world atmosphere with more than a little cocky chauvinism, and discrimination thrown in. I've been watching Mad Men a little lately and from what I've read there are parallels to be drawn between 1950's Manhattan and modern Dubai… whether or not those parallels are at all accurate needs to be determined with more research though.

Another thing on my mind is Shellakers' triumphant return to the blogosphere. I'm awash with emotion about this, but not nearly as much as I feel I should be, this is bothering me a little. I was quite certain she died and I'm still not sure how I should feel about that. The more I interact with death the more I confuse myself. I can never seem to figure out what I should feel about people I know dying… I believe I've mentioned this before but it never ceases to bother me. And that bothers me more, because it shouldn't be about me, I didn't die, or almost die, at least not yet anyways, so it should be about the person who did, not about me and my stupid inability to figure myself out. I think that's why I liked the show 6 Feet Under, at least what I watched of it, because it allowed me to explore my own feelings on death without the unpleasantness of anyone actually dying…

Anyhow, welcome back Shell, I missed you and am quite glad you're still around. Feel free to berate me for that last paragraph which I think was coming dangerously close to being emo and we can't have that.

I'll finish up this disjointed ramble with a shout out to (again) the awesomeness of Warren Ellis. Last post I linked up to his awesome comic freakangels, but today I feel inclined to steal a bit from it to repost here. The oddest things inspire me and this is one of them, now if Mr Ellis would rather I not steal his work to put on my humble blog he can come down here and smack me with his cane. I promise I'd try not to enjoy it too much.

How It Works

I still get asked with appalling regularity “where my ideas come from.”

Here’s the deal. I flood my poor ageing head with information. Any information. Lots of it. And I let it all slosh around in the back of my brain, in the part normal people use for remembering bills, thinking about sex and making appointments to wash the dishes.

Eventually, you get a critical mass of information. Datum 1 plugs into Datum 2 which connects to Datum 3 and Data 4 and 5 stick to it and you’ve got a chain reaction. A bunch of stuff knits together and lights up and you’ve got what’s called “an idea”.

And for that brief moment where it’s all flaring and welding together, you are Holy. You can’t be touched. Something impossible and brilliant has happened and suddenly you understand what it would be like if Einstein’s brain was placed into the body of a young tyrannosaur, stuffed full of amphetamines and suffused with Sex Radiation.

That is what has happened to me tonight. I am beaming Sex Rays across the world and my brain is all lit up with Holy Fire. If I felt like it, I could shag a million nuns and destroy their faith in Christ.

From my chair.

See, this is the good bit about writing. It’s what keeps you going. It’s the wild rush of “shit, did I think of that?” with all kinds of weird chemicals shunting around your brain and ideas and images and moments and storyforms all opening up snapsnapsnap in your mind, a mass of new and unrealised possibilities.

It’s ten past two in the morning, and I’m completely wired, caught up in the new thing, shivering and laughing and glowing in the dark. Just as well it’s the middle of the night. No-one would be safe from me right now. I could read their minds and take over their heartbeats with a glare.